


Sweet Like a Peach

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Oral Sex, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 13:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15292065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: During the mosaic quest, Quentin and Eliot reexamine their relationship as they face an uncertain future after the death of Quentin’s wife.





	Sweet Like a Peach

**Author's Note:**

> : I don’t own The Magicians, it owns me. Heart and soul. This is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic and as always, enjoy!

Sweet Like a Peach

By Lexalicious70

 

Eliot woke up all at once, the jangling, discordant noise outside the small cottage pulling him out of his dreams. He sat up in the darkness and then heard it again—the sound of mosaic tiles breaking.

 

“Shit . . .” Eliot tossed on the soft cotton robe Arielle had made for him the year before and padded barefoot across the floor before opening the front door, ignoring the blast of night air that gusted against his face. About twenty feet away, Quentin was kicking down stacks of tiles they’d made a few hours earlier, the first day they’d done any work on the mosaic since Arielle’s death two months earlier. She’d died during childbirth, and the little daughter she and Quentin had looked so forward to welcoming had been stillborn as well. The loss had devastated Quentin, and with four-year-old Rupert to look after in his mother’s absence, Eliot had put the mosaic quest aside. He and Quentin had made some sorting headway that afternoon, but now the tiles were skidding across the finished areas like curling stones. One rose into the air, glittering in the moonlight, and landed with a muted thump near the tool shed they’d built together a few years earlier. Eliot ran barefoot across the yard and grabbed Quentin’s arm.

 

“Q, stop it! What are you doing?”

 

Quentin yanked his arm away and continued to kick at any tiles he could find.

 

“It’s all shit! This is all shit, it doesn’t mean anything, it’s fucking shit and I’m done with it!” He slammed one of the tiles into the side of the shed. Orange fragments flew like porcelain shrapnel and Eliot shielded his face.

 

“Quentin, stop it!” Eliot grabbed the shorter man’s arm and turned him. Quentin’s expression was a mad whirl of fury, grief and confusion. Tear tracks cut through a fine layer of dirt, and his hands and the knees of his linen pants were dark with soil as well—the same they’d used to bury Arielle and the baby. “What are you doing?” Eliot asked, and Quentin glared up at him.

 

“I’m putting an end to this bullshit! It’s all for nothing! I’m not letting magic or time or whatever it is that’s leading us down this pointless path control us anymore!”

 

“We’re doing it to bring back magic—”

 

“Fuck magic! I wish I’d never heard of magic or Fillory or Brakebills or any of it!” Quentin pushed him hard and Eliot stumbled back, more out of surprise than anything else. “Fuck all of it! Fuck, fuck!” Quentin turned to aim another kick at a stack of blue tiles, and Eliot marched forward. He wrapped both arms around Quentin and lifted him off his feet. Quentin shrieked and cursed and kicked, but Eliot’s size and strength won out. He barely ducked as Quentin kicked over the tall observation chair they’d built to look at the mosaic from a bird’s-eye view and it struck the ground with flat thump. Knowing he’d wake Rupert if he took Quentin inside, he carried the younger man over to the other side of the mosaic and sat them down on a patterned blanket that Arielle had woven in much happier times. Quentin continued to struggle and Eliot didn’t try to stop him. He sat with Quentin practically in his lap, taking blows to his hips and legs until the younger magician was spent and his curses dissolved into deep, gasping sobs. Eliot rested his chin on Quentin’s left shoulder and rocked him.

 

“I know, Q. It’s all right. Shhhhh . . .”

 

Quentin sobbed for nearly ten minutes and when they finally tapered off, he mopped his face with his shirtsleeve like a tired child and shifted off Eliot’s lap to face his friend.

 

“I’m sorry,” He said, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

 

“You were angry. I understand.” Eliot conjured a bowl of cool, fresh water and a soft cloth. Quentin sniffled, his fury spent, and sat still as Eliot wet the cloth, wrung it out, and wiped Quentin’s face with the same gentle strokes he used on Rupert after the boy was done eating.

 

“And I didn’t mean what I said. About magic, or Brakebills.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Because then I wouldn’t have met you,” Quentin said as Eliot finger combed the tangles from his hair and smoothed it back. “And I can’t imagine what my life would be like without you. This life or the one we lived before.”

 

“The several dozen we lived before,” Eliot smiled. Quentin nodded.

 

“I’m so sorry. I just—I went to visit the gravesite thinking I’d be okay, that I could finally look at it but thinking about Arielle and Grace . . . and how Grace never even got to draw a breath—it just all seems to fucking unfair, El. And I know that you’ve always said life isn’t fair, but . . . I just have to wonder how much this quest is going to take out of us before it’s all over. You cared about Arielle too; God, you dug their graves because I couldn’t. You must be so tired of cleaning up after me.”

 

Eliot reached out with the cloth and wiped the last of the dirt from Quentin’s chin.

 

“Oh, Q. Who else is going to follow you around the multiverse to try and keep you out of trouble? Although I may have done it for the wide array of fabulous outfits.”

 

Quentin stared at his friend for a few moments and then Eliot was catching him in his arms, gasping in surprise, as Quentin kissed him hard on the mouth. Eliot’s hands plunged into Quentin’s hair as the younger man claimed his mouth over and over, the kisses eager and messy and full of feeling. When Quentin pulled away, Eliot started to speak but Quentin shook his head.

 

“No talking now. Talking makes me think and I don’t want to think right now, I just want to feel, I want to feel something other than grief and fear and—and I love you, El . . .” He lifted his linen shirt over his head and tossed it aside before lightly tackling Eliot back onto the blanket as Eliot’s head spun with awe and Quentin’s scent, so familiar, filled his senses. The young magician’s clever hands slid under Eliot’s nightshirt, the skin of his palms slightly rough from months of handling the mosaic tiles, and rasped against Eliot’s nipples. Eliot’s breath caught on sensation.

 

“Q!”

 

Emboldened, Quentin tugged the nightshirt up and traced the pattern of Eliot’s dark chest hair with both hands while his full lips did devastating things to his neck. A muttered spell had them both nude a moment later and they rolled and tussled on the blanket, hands exploring, stroking, delighting in what they found. Eliot felt the press of Quentin’s erection against his upper left leg, the head leaving wet pearls of fluid there and he reached for it, but it slid away. Quentin’s long hair tickled the sensitive skin there a moment later, falling forward in two tawny curtains as he leaned over Eliot’s lap. Eliot’s hips twisted and thrust upward as Quentin’s warm breath wafted over the head of his cock.

 

“Q, are you sure—”

 

“Shut up, El,” Quentin murmured and negated further discussion by sucking the head of Eliot’s erection into his mouth. Eliot’s amber eyes widened and his own mouth dropped open.

 

“Fuck! Jesus fuck, Q!” He plunged his hands into Quentin’s hair and checked the thrust of his hips, knowing the younger man wasn’t experienced enough to take too much too fast. Sense memory flickered through him—something he barely remembered but had longed for ever since. But there were no spells between them now, no veiled curtain of booze and magic. It was just the two of them, wrapped in nothing but the night air, and it filled Eliot with a kind of giddy joy. He tugged on Quentin’s hair, who responded by taking as much cock as he could into his mouth, making a wet seal with his lips. He began to suck on Eliot’s cock as if enjoying a particularly delicious popsicle on a summer day, his right hand, palming what he couldn’t fit in his mouth. The long muscles in Eliot’s thighs quivered and tensed as Quentin made wet, needy sounds around his erection.

 

“Fuck, fuck . . . Q, I’m going to come . . .” Eliot moaned, wanting to give his less experienced lover a warning, but it only seemed to spur Quentin on. His fingers sheathed the shaft of Eliot’s cock and gave it firm, quick tugs that made Eliot’s balls throb and tighten. His hips rolled and Quentin pulled off him with a slurp, his dark eyes shiny with arousal, the pupils blown wide. He licked his lips.

 

“I—I want—” He stammered, his former boldness failing him, and Eliot nodded.

 

“Yes, me too. But here, let me show you.” He pulled Quentin forward and rolled him over onto his back. His own cock wept continuously and he used the slick to coat himself before giving Quentin’s cock a few wet tugs as well. Eliot straddled his lover, rose up, and positioned himself before sinking down on Quentin’s erection. Quentin’s mouth dropped open as Eliot’s velvet heat settled around him.

 

“Oh—”

 

Eliot smiled and reveled at the feel of being filled. Despite whatever sexual shortcomings Quentin thought he had, Eliot didn’t recognize any, especially with the delicious way the head of Quentin’s cock was grinding against his prostate as he slid down to the shaft. He arched his back and began to ride Quentin’s hardon as he guided the younger man’s right hand to his cock.

 

“Find the rhythm, Q . . . good, that’s it, oh, just like that, honeylove . . .” Eliot moaned as Quentin began to move his hand, stroking up as Eliot thrusted downward in a blood-boiling contrast of sensation. He squeezed Quentin as he impaled himself over and over and watched Quentin jack him, which sent pulses of arousal through his groin. Quentin writhed beneath him, tiny mewling sounds escaping his throat, and then his eyes rolled and closed as he shuddered and spent himself deep inside Eliot’s tight heat.

 

“God, Q—fuck!” Eliot gasped at the hot flood and he ground himself against Quentin until the tension in his lower abdomen and the shaft of his cock unwound all at once in a dizzying release. He shot up onto his trembling belly and coated Quentin’s hand as well, and the mingled scent of their fluids created something Eliot wanted to wrap around them like one of Arielle’s blankets. He rode out the waves of pleasure until the pulses faded and rose up, letting Quentin slide free. Quentin looked up at him, and Eliot’s heart skipped a beat when he saw tears in his lover’s eyes.

 

“Q, what is it?” He rolled to one side and sat up. “Is it because of what we just did?”

 

Quentin shook his head and wiped at his eyes.

 

“No . . . I wanted to, El. Arielle and I—we used to talk about it. Inviting you into the marriage, I mean. We just never knew how to approach it.” He sighed. “She liked you a lot and always said how you were a second dad to Rupert.”

 

“I liked her too, Q. Very much.” He slid an arm around Quentin. “Now tell me why you’re crying.”

 

“I—I guess it’s a lot of things? I still miss Arielle, I’m worried how I’m going to raise Rupert without her, and relief that you didn’t reject me.”

 

“Q, why the hell would you expect me to reject you?”

 

“Because that’s what I did to you. You know—before. And I thought maybe I’d fucked up badly enough that you might not give me a second chance. Because that’s what I want, El. I meant what I said before. You—you’re my family and I love you.”

 

Eliot flashed the younger man a grin and drew him down onto the blankets.

 

“I love you too, you silly, wonderful creature!” He pushed Quentin’s hair from his eyes. “I suppose I have from the moment you stared up at me at the entrance to Brakebills in that awful shirt and tie, looking like the world’s cutest lost puppy.”

 

“They weren’t that awful.”

 

“They were from _Ross_ , Q!”

 

Quentin shifted over until he could rest his head on Eliot’s chest.

 

“I’m sorry I fucked up the tiles,” he said, and Eliot shook his head.

 

“We’ll tackle it together in the morning.”

 

“Together,” Quentin murmured, giving himself over to sleep. Eliot stroked his hair until Quentin’s breathing evened out and rolled him into his arms to spoon him instead. His fair skin was soft against Eliot’s bare arms, his long hair soft and sweet smelling.

 

 _We’re a family_ , Eliot thought to himself as he dropped off to sleep.

 

He never felt the whisper of a kiss on his forehead, but Quentin smiled in his sleep as a breeze that smelled like peaches wafted over them both.

 

_End_

 


End file.
